All these people.
So much love. So much subconscious fear, that I might die without having shared enough of my thoughts with the external, that this unique experience of having been ME, that all the words that swim frantically through my thoughtstream, would curl and wisp away in the fire of my pyre.
This irrepressible need to express. To live. To love.
So I share with people I love. Pour myself into them. And urge them to pour into me, and bind, and be bound. I spread myself in all these pretty, pretty people, who I call friends.
...
And you. I wanted a partner, one person I could do all my pourings into, optimize this process of exhibition. I started defining the experience of reality through sentences that I constructed in the smithy of my mind, and gift-wrapped them for you; I occasionally sent them to you in summer night conversations, and texts sent in the dead of night under the influence of exhaustion.
But this exclusivity is dangerous. If only you were a boy...
And we fell.
...
And now we dance again, slightly older, slightly wiser. And the old smithy of the mind is whirring up its machinery again, softly humming your name in interstices between family and friends and work.
...
I am so exhausted from this pouring. I don't have time, I'm ruining myself, I'm spreading myself too thin.
But you're all so interesting. I love you all.
So do I pour myself in all of you? I would die from the effort. Oh, if only there was one who could be a placeholder for my experience of reality. If I had one, I wouldn't need all.
...
Or perhaps this whole idea is flawed. Why should I define my life in sentences wrought for someone?
But then who do I talk to?
A piece of paper.
But paper doesn't talk back. I cannot love cellulose pulp. And it cannot love me back.
...
Go lightly.
Perhaps I should not want to love so much. Perhaps I should stop thinking about this process. Perhaps I need to learn detachment. Happiness surely has something to do with !thinking.
...
I need to learn detachment.
...
Hello paper my old friend. I've come to talk with you again.
So much love. So much subconscious fear, that I might die without having shared enough of my thoughts with the external, that this unique experience of having been ME, that all the words that swim frantically through my thoughtstream, would curl and wisp away in the fire of my pyre.
This irrepressible need to express. To live. To love.
So I share with people I love. Pour myself into them. And urge them to pour into me, and bind, and be bound. I spread myself in all these pretty, pretty people, who I call friends.
...
And you. I wanted a partner, one person I could do all my pourings into, optimize this process of exhibition. I started defining the experience of reality through sentences that I constructed in the smithy of my mind, and gift-wrapped them for you; I occasionally sent them to you in summer night conversations, and texts sent in the dead of night under the influence of exhaustion.
But this exclusivity is dangerous. If only you were a boy...
And we fell.
...
And now we dance again, slightly older, slightly wiser. And the old smithy of the mind is whirring up its machinery again, softly humming your name in interstices between family and friends and work.
...
I am so exhausted from this pouring. I don't have time, I'm ruining myself, I'm spreading myself too thin.
But you're all so interesting. I love you all.
So do I pour myself in all of you? I would die from the effort. Oh, if only there was one who could be a placeholder for my experience of reality. If I had one, I wouldn't need all.
...
Or perhaps this whole idea is flawed. Why should I define my life in sentences wrought for someone?
But then who do I talk to?
A piece of paper.
But paper doesn't talk back. I cannot love cellulose pulp. And it cannot love me back.
...
Go lightly.
Perhaps I should not want to love so much. Perhaps I should stop thinking about this process. Perhaps I need to learn detachment. Happiness surely has something to do with !thinking.
...
I need to learn detachment.
...
Hello paper my old friend. I've come to talk with you again.
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